


In Stereo

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader was well on her way to a promising career in news broadcasting when she began to manifest the power of telepathy (at a very inopportune time).  Word of her condition spreads far enough to reach the ears of Sam and Dean Winchester, and they show up to investigate.  (Prompt: Cancer - Telepathy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Stereo

Before they appear in the doorway, you already know two things about them: first, they’re not who they say they are, and second, they’re here because they want to help you.  Then they round the corner and you get an eyeful of them, tall and handsome in their scrubs and white coats, looking like they just stepped off the set of _Grey’s Anatomy_.  You smile wryly to yourself.  Of all the gawkers who’ve turned up at the empty psych ward in the last two weeks, at least these ones are good-looking.  

“(Y/N)?” one of them says, taking a few steps closer and coming in a little clearer.  “We’re sorry to disturb you, but we’re neurologists and we’ve got a few questions for you.  I’m Dr. Collins, and this is my associate Dr. Gabriel.  Do you mind if we -”

You hold up a hand, interrupting.  “Don’t bother,” you say, not unkindly.  “You’re Dean Winchester, that’s your brother, Sam, and neither of you is a doctor.” They glance briefly at each other, saying nothing.  They’re unsettled, but not surprised, which surprises you.  “What makes you think you can help?” you ask.

“We saw the video,” Sam says, and before he can continue, you laugh.

“You and about 10 million other people,” you reply.  “I always hoped I’d get famous some day.”  

_The video._ In the two weeks you’ve been hospitalized, you’ve become a viral sensation thanks to the video.  It was supposed to be a routine broadcast, a five-minute piece on the local Democratic rally, buried somewhere in the back half of the 6:00 news.  It started off mundanely enough; you were giving a perky-if-unsubstantial report on the rally while the crowd around you cheered and waved signs at the camera, and then the wind began to pick up violently, and thunder started rumbling in the distance.  You made a lame joke about the sky being as excited as the ralliers, then pressed ahead with the report.  Then lightning forked across the sky, a massive streak that burned bright blue, and a few people in the crowd screamed, startled. You screamed, too, but unlike the rest of the crowd, you didn’t stop.  You dropped the microphone and brought your hands up to your ears, shrieking and dropping to your knees, repeating, “Get back!” and “It’s too loud!” and “Make it stop!” while everyone around you stared, at you or the camera.  Finally, you fell unconscious, and that’s when they cut the live broadcast, not quite quickly enough to save your career in television journalism.

“We think we might know what happened to you,” Sam says.

“ _Reporter has on-air psychotic breakdown_ ,” you say, with a little more attitude than you intend.  “Everyone knows that.”

“It wasn’t a breakdown,” Sam says, and he believes it.  Dean believes it, too.  It’s a start.

“Can you tell us what happened, in your own words?” Dean asks. You sigh, and start to explain - the real version, not the story you’ve been sticking to.

“You saw the video,” you say, “so you probably know about as much as I do.  I was at that rally, doing my report, and then that electrical storm picked up out of nowhere.  I kept going because we were live on the air, and then . . . there was just noise.  Like thousands of voices, all talking at once.  It was deafening, and my head felt like my skull was cracking open, and then . . . well, you saw.  I don’t remember screaming or fainting or anything.  I just remember waking up in this room to the sound of the nurses talking, except, they weren’t.  It was quiet, but I could hear them.  The doctor, the other patients, visitors. You.”

_How much can you hear?_ Sam thinks, and it comes through clear as a bell.  

“I heard that,” you say, and he smiles.  Dean frowns, looking at Sam and then back to you.  “It depends,” you explain.  “When you think right at me like that, I hear it fine.  I know what you’re feeling.  I know you don’t think I’m crazy, which is refreshing.  I can’t tell why though . . . maybe if you came a little closer.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of a near-sighted mind-reader,” he says.

You shrug. “I’ve never heard of a mind-reader at all,” you counter.  “Twenty-four,” you add, before Dean has a chance to ask you what number he’s thinking of.  

“She’s the real deal,” he says to Sam, and Sam nods.  

“So if I come right up to you - ” Sam starts.

“Everything,” you say.  “Feelings, thoughts, memories.  I’ll hear all of it.  I can’t not.”

“It might be easier than trying to explain,” he says.  “Unless it’s going to hurt you.”

You shake your head.  “It’s okay. You think you can fix this.  I want to know how. Just . . . don’t touch me, okay?  It’s too loud when people touch me.”

“I won’t,” he says, and he starts to cross the fifteen or so feet between the doorway and your bed while Dean hangs back.  Sam approaches, watching you carefully.  In the span of five feet, you’ve got the answers you’re looking for, and they’re about as hard to swallow as the fact that you plucked them right out of a stranger’s brain.  It wasn’t an electrical storm at all, it was a spell someone cast that went awry.  Dozens of people within a hundred-mile radius began showing signs of supernatural abilities . . . teleportation, pyrokinesis, necromancy, and now, with you, telepathy.  They haven’t found the witch responsible yet, but they’ve got leads, and Sam thinks they can reverse the spell.   

You’ve heard the word _crazy_ thrown around a lot lately, but you know that is truly insane.  It’s also one hundred percent true.  At least, Sam believes it is..

You’re so caught up in it, in witches and magic and pyrokinetics, that you don’t think to tell him he can stop walking.  He closes in another five feet, and then the contents of Sam’s mind hit you like an avalanche, overwhelming you with images of incredible love and immeasurable loss, angels terrible in their beauty and demons terrible all around, of total darkness and blinding light. Then it blends together, blurred and cacophonous, until the only image that comes in clear is the image of fire, all-consuming and unstoppable.

You sob.

Sam stops, alarmed, and asks, “Are you okay?”  You barely hear him.

“Get back, please,” you shout, bringing your hands up to your ears as though you could block out what you’re hearing.   He backs up, in a hurry.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to -”

“I know,” you say, sniffling, catching your breath.  It’s something of an understatement.  

“Did you get what you needed out of your little Vulcan mind-meld?” Dean says, and you smile, indulgently, through your tears.  Seeing him now, the way Sam does, he doesn’t seem like a stranger anymore.

“You’re going to find the witch and reverse the spell,” you say, “and I get to figure out a fall-back career with peace and quiet in my own head again.  It sounds a hell of a lot better than hiding out in a psych ward for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t have to wait here,” Sam says, and he’s already got a plan half-formed to break you out.

“It’s okay,” you say.  “It’s mostly quiet, here.  People stay away.  Out there . . . who knows.  Plus, the drugs are pretty great.”

“Do they actually help?” Sam asks.

You shake your head. “They don’t do a thing for the mind-reading,” you say, “but they certainly don’t hurt.”  He laughs softly.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Sam says.  Dean goes digging through his pocket for a pen.

“I’ve got the number,” you say.  “I’ll call if anything changes.”

“Otherwise, just sit tight, okay?” Dean says.  You nod, and they turn to leave.

“Wait,” you say quickly, stopping them mid-step.  They look back at you.  “I have to thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Sam says.  “We’ll fix this.”

“No,” you say, and your eyes start to well up again.  “Not just this.  All of it.  Everything I saw in Sam’s head. Both of you . . . just . . . thank you.”

They glance at each other for a moment, and you lie back and let the tears roll onto your pillow. Sam nods, a little stricken, and then they’re on their way.  You close your eyes and weep, grateful for the silence.


End file.
